The weakling who meets with trouble
uplifts his voice in complaint and ceases to struggle against
obstacles; the strong man or woman remains silent and strives on
indomitably until success is achieved. It is strange to see how many
complaining weaklings are living around us at this day, and how
querulous and unjust are the outcries addressed to Fate, Fortune, and
Providence. We are the heirs of the ages; we know all about the brave
souls that suffered and strove and conquered in days gone by, and yet
many who possess this knowledge, and who have the gift of expression
at its highest, spend their time in one long tiresome whimper. Half
the poetry of our time is rhythmic complaint; young men who have
hardly had time to look round on the splendid panorama of life profess
to crave for death, and young women who should be thinking only of
work and love and brightness prefer to sink into languor. There is no
curing a poet when once he takes to being mournful, for he hugs his
own woe with positive pleasure, and all his musical pathos is simply
self-pity.
When Napoleon said, "You must not fear Death, my lads. Defy him, and
you drive him into the enemy's ranks!" he uttered a truth which
applies in the moral world as on the battle-field.
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